Last of the summer wine

We three are boldly travelling to a place where no man has been before. Largely, that’s because our destination is the arts and crafts exhibition in the room over the café at Lulworth Cove. This is not akin to the huge pre-Christmas affairs that will shortly take place in enormous venues all over the country and most likely throughout the whole universe. This one, unsuspectingly located above those who have been blown indoors from passing coastal hurricanes for comforting hot chocolate and slabs of Dorset Apple Cake, only houses six or seven tables. So, just the two hours then.

The downside of sharing things in common is that at least two of us are drawn to the same pictures, wood carvings, glass work…..well, everything really. And being grown-ups, we must avoid squabbling which means that we are sickeningly polite: ‘no, really, you choose.’ So Sally gets what I wanted and I get something that she was keen on and all three of us unknowingly purchase similar bags; and henceforth must make further polite enquiries to ensure we do not bring them on outings together and look like members of some club. That would be the old biddies association I fear.

It doesn’t end there either. After a gusty trek, past the bucket tree, we reach the beach. Except there is no beach. Only a couple of weeks ago I was down here taking in the calming pleasures of the cove and making a momentous decision not to buy a painted shell. Today, the sea has eliminated all traces of a shore-line and we have to virtually strap ourselves to the railing in order to watch huge waves breaking across the rocks at the entrance to the tiny bay. Enough already. Back up the hill to purchase some goods from the largest stockists of country wines in the world. Allegedly.

Actually, it’s only Sally that wants anything and we go inside just to humour her. To pass the time, we enquire whether it would be possible to sample the Christmas Mead. And the Sloe Gin. And the Elderflower and Lemon Liqueur. And the Birch Wine. The woman in charge of tasting asks whether I would find it easier to put my purchases in a large box and we all stagger back to the car. Stopping at the pub for a spot of lunch, I return from the bar to find my compatriots on their hands and knees under the table. It’s one of those olde worlde joints with even older games our grandparents might’ve played. These two hadn’t even worked out the instructions for the contents of the wooden box they’d chosen before they managed to flip the apparently essential ball bearing away into the beer soaked ether. You can’t take them anywhere.